Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 32

I lock my apartment door with shaking hands, Adrian's note still clutched against my chest like some kind of twisted security blanket.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes through my empty apartment, but it doesn't make me feel safer. If anything, it makes me feel more trapped—locked in here with my own stupid desires and the evidence of what I still want despite everything.

The black lace panties lie on my bed like an invitation to damnation, and I hate how my body responds—heat pooling low in my belly, thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Five months of telling myself I was over him, that I'd moved on, that I was building something healthier, and all it takes is some expensive lingerie to reduce me to this.

"You're pathetic," I whisper to my empty room, but my voice lacks conviction. "He sends you underwear and you're already wet. Fucking pathetic."

Thoughts are sprawling in my head for answers. What should and shouldn’t be done, what would be the right thing to do? What would a sane person do in my place? The answer seems obvious, and yet it doesn’t sit right with me.

A sane person would probably have gone to the police or immediately gotten rid of a disturbing reminder from the past that was too destructive to keep around.

Instead, I find myself moving toward my dresser like I'm sleepwalking through my own destruction.

Just once, the traitorous voice in my head whispers. Just once, to get him out of your system. To prove you can have this without needing him.

"Right," I mutter, pulling open my sock drawer. "Because that worked so well the last hundred times."

But I'm already reaching for my rose-shaped vibrator, hidden beneath wool socks and winter scarves like some kind of shameful secret.

The familiar weight of it in my hand is both comforting and damning—my constant companion through five months of Adrian-induced insomnia.

"This is stupid," I tell my reflection in the dresser mirror, but I'm already moving back toward the bed. "This is so fucking stupid, Sophie."

The panties feel like silk wrapped around accusations as I slide them up my legs. The moment the lace settles against my skin, memories flood back with devastating clarity. His fingers hooking beneath the elastic that first night at the club.

The way he'd looked at me like I was something he owned before I even knew his name.

"Fuck," I breathe, closing my eyes as the fabric molds to my body. It feels exactly like his hands—possessive, demanding, claiming territory that was never supposed to be his. "God, what is wrong with me?"

But I already know the answer. What's wrong with me is that I let Adrian Lewis rewire my understanding of pleasure, and five months hasn't been nearly long enough to undo that damage.

I settle back against my pillows, the vibrator's gentle hum filling the silence as I press it against myself through the thin lace.

Immediately, my mind betrays me—flooding with memories of Adrian's voice commanding me to touch myself, those storm-gray eyes watching me fall apart like I was a science experiment he was conducting.

"That's it, princess," I can hear him saying, the memory so vivid it makes my hips jerk against the toy. "Show me how desperate you are. Show me what you need."

"No," I whisper, trying to focus on the physical sensation instead of the psychological manipulation. "Just the feeling. Not him."

But it's useless. The vibrator might be in my hand, but in my mind, it's Adrian's fingers circling my clit with maddening precision.

Building me up only to pull away when I begged for release, making me earn every moment of pleasure like it was a gift he could withdraw at any time.

"Please," I hear myself whispering, and I'm not even sure if I'm talking to the memory or to my own body. "Please, I need—"

"You need to beg properly," Adrian's voice echoes from some dark corner of my memory. "You need to tell me exactly what you want, princess. Use your words."

My hips rock against the toy as I imagine his hands holding me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress while he whispered filthy commands in that controlled, clinical voice that made me feel like the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"Good girl," he'd whispered when I obeyed, when I spread my legs wider, when I let him see how completely he owned me. "Such a good girl for me."

The memory of his praise, his control, his absolute certainty that I belonged to him sends me over the edge with devastating force.

The orgasm crashes through me like a tsunami, wiping out every rational thought, every carefully constructed wall I'd built against missing him.

"Adrian," his name falls from my lips like a prayer and a curse, like an admission of guilt and a plea for forgiveness all at once. "Fuck, Adrian, please…"

For those perfect, terrible moments, he owns me completely—just like before. Just like he always has, even when he's not here, even when I hate him for it, even when I know better.

Reality returns like cold water thrown in my face. I stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, vibrator still humming forgotten in my grip like evidence of my own weakness. The post-orgasm clarity hits with brutal efficiency, showing me exactly what I've just done.

"You stupid, stupid bitch," I whisper to the ceiling. "Five months of therapy appointments you didn't take, of building yourself back up, of convincing everyone you were fine. And you just threw it all away for twenty minutes with a sex toy and some fucking lingerie."

Self-loathing floods through me, bitter and familiar. It tastes like disappointment and shame, like knowing I'm exactly as weak as everyone thinks I am. Cleo was right—I never really got over him. I just got better at pretending.

The vibrator feels like an accusation in my hand, still buzzing with mechanical indifference while I fall apart. In a sudden burst of rage, I throw it across the room, watching it bounce off the wall and land on the carpet with a dull thud.

"There," I snarl at my empty apartment. "Happy now?"

But even as I rage at my own weakness, even as I call myself every name I can think of, I can't bring myself to take off the panties. They cling to my skin like silk wrapped around a promise I'm not ready to break.

Because even hating myself, even knowing I'm weak, even knowing he's going to destroy me all over again, I can't bear to lose this last piece of what we had.

The truth settles over me like a shroud I can't shake off: Adrian Lewis still owns me, body and soul and everything in between.

And we both know it.